The morning after we buried my father, my ex-husband’s new wife walked straight into his garden and told me to begin packing my belongings.

Dad’s voice drifted through my memory.

Handle roses firmly, sweetheart. Never cruelly. Even thorns exist for a reason.

“Leave,” I said softly. “Before I forget my manners.”

Brooke laughed under her breath.

“You honestly think you’re keeping all of this?”

Her eyes moved across the estate—the wide wraparound porch, the old brick chimneys, the towering oak continue reading …